


Countdown To Royalty

by Vieux



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Atoryo - Freeform, Countdown, M/M, Morbid, Romance, Royal Pair, Sad, Sad Ending, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, prompt-based
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vieux/pseuds/Vieux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU// Three days before their death, people gain a set of floating numbers that dance above their heads- a countdown. An Atoryo tragedy where it takes Atobe and Ryoma a grand total of five days to become unforgettable. One of them becomes prisoner to the mocking digits while the other can do nothing more than defer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I: Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting anything under my AO3 account, it's such an adventure ^_^

 /

He’s had his fair share of luck over the years. Not everyone is born to a somewhat well-off family, has two parents, and has a pro tennis player as a father- although recently he’s begun to question the last point, especially after the discovery of more perverted magazines.

 But sometimes he feels really _unlucky_. 

He never _wanted_ to see death’s personal timer. Alright, so everyone can just a little bit. When a man goes into cardiac arrest, almost everyone can see that his death timer has already started; even if they don’t know exactly when he’s going to die, just that it’s probably soon. And when an old grandmother in the hospital flat-lines, everyone notices that her death timer is very nearly finished.

 

But he, Echizen Ryoma, can count numbers, days, and seconds- because whenever someone is about to die, a small countdown begins above their heads. It always seems to start at the three-day mark; he’ll be walking down a grocery aisle, and suddenly he’ll see a woman passing by when numbers fade in with a flash over her head. Or he’ll just be riding Momoshiro’s bike down the street before he notices a business man bend down and pick up a loose leaflet; when he stands back up again, he’s already a prisoner of floating digits dancing mockingly over his neatly slicked back hair. 

  
What irks him is the fact that no matter what he does, death arrives. He’s tried so many times to save people- catching a person who falls off a bridge, pushing a person out of the way- hell, he’s even tried throwing himself in front of an incoming train to save the small child on the tracks. But after all of that, he’s learned that death is inevitable. It comes and goes in a perpetual cycle that never stops, never ends, never waits, not for anyone. He’s seen the anguished faces, the empty eyes, the chilled souls. They haunt him in his dreams.

/

 Ryoma sits up out of bed and tugs his pajamas off, revealing his bare chest. It’s a Tuesday, so he’ll probably have to work overtime. He yawns and stretches his arms before reaching out to grab a ragged t-shirt with some band name strewn messily over it in a barely legible scrawl. Ryoma’s fingers trace absentmindedly over the fading white letters, when his phone rings. 

  
“…Hello? What do you _want_?” He’s an absolute grump in the mornings, especially without any caffeine.

 “Whoa, who died under your bed last night?” Momoshiro jokes, sounding slightly miffed. “I just wanted to ask if you were interested in-“

 “No.” Ryoma shuts him up before he even has a chance to ask his question.

 “Hey, but-“

 “I’m busy. Call later.”

 “So An asked me if the skirt she was wearing made her look fat-“

 “Tell her to stop blaming the skirt then.” 

 “Wai-“

  _Beep. Beep. Beep._

   
Ryoma grumbles under his breath as he tugs on a pair of black skinny jeans. He _hates_ Tuesdays. He makes a half hearted attempt to start the toaster, but apparently it’s not working. It’s obviously the toaster. Definitely the toaster. Absolutely _not_ his inability to cook. Everything should be blamed on the shitty piece of silver metal, Ryoma thinks. He brushes his teeth slowly and sloppily, not even bothering to wash his face. He’s not sure exactly _when_ everything became such a monotonous gray in his life. If he tries, he can almost remember when he used to play tennis. Or when he used to… read? No, he never read books. Maybe he used to draw.

  
Without the permission of his mind, Ryoma’s fingers reach out to touch the mirror, brushing lightly over his gaunt reflection. He looks almost as shitty as Tuesday’s are.

/

He’s at the local café when a second call comes.

 Ryoma frowns. Clearly he wasn’t as intimidating as he thought, because Momoshiro seems to have worked up enough courage to call again. “Hey, Echizen, I-“

“Please. Just don’t.” Ryoma doesn’t want to talk about anything today. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone today. He just doesn’t want anything other than coffee and food and maybe some Ponta. And his cat Karupin. Definitely Karupin.“Hey, this is only the 20th time in two days, it was thirty calls last week!”

 “Yes, but hasn’t it ever occurred to you that I don’t want to help you ask out Kaidoh, or get An to forgive you? Or maybe you never realized that I don’t want your help moving into my new flat? Or did you think that I knew someone who wanted to buy your furniture?” Ryoma snaps, feeling a vein pop on his forehead.

“But I got sunburnt yesterday on the beach and my skin is peeling, what-“

“That's just all of your obnoxious ugliness trying to get off.”  Ryoma sighs. “Look, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve grown up, ok? I don’t… I don’t appreciate or need you nagging behind me like my mother. _I’m fine_.”

There’s a very pregnant pause on the other end of the line. “That is the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

“Excuse me?” He makes a conscious effort to keep the scowl off of his face.

 “Never mind, I have to go. Training with Kaidoh in the gym today. But really, look at yourself in the mirror for once. You’re a shell.”

“I’m not a shell.”

   
_Beep. Beep. Beep._

   
Ryoma stares. There is no way Momoshiro just hung up on him.

  
“Sir? Sir? Sir… Sir! Your coffee is ready?”  
  
He starts.

“And so is your grave,” he snaps. The waitress jumps and lets out a squeak before darting away in fright.  
 

He bumps into someone on his way to the coffee counter. “Sorry,” he mutters tersely. “Wasn’t paying attention.” He pays quickly and lets the store keep the change (kind of like compensation?) before exiting and starting leisurely down the sidewalk, purposely walking in the middle of the road to inconvenience those behind him. He blames Tuesdays; they just turn him into that kind of person.  
  
It’s all fine and dandy and beautiful until someone bumps into him, shouldering his chest hard. Ryoma turns to snarl at the person before freezing, watching the younger boy apologize and dart away; he seems to be in a rush. Slowly, Ryoma blinks. And stares. And blinks again.  
 

And then his legs kick into motion, sprinting faster than he can even count.

 /

 His chest hurts. He can barely remember anything. And why the hell is everything around him so blurry? He slowly begins to sit up, but puzzles at the weird black strap across his torso keeping him down. What is he doing here? His fingers are numb, but he can feel himself trying to maneuver his hand into a more comfortable position. Voices are getting louder, pounding in his head.

Blearily, he looks around, eyes stopping on a few blurred drops of blood. Are his eyes bleeding, or is that his… hand? He must have scraped it on the asphalt. He feels the rough black road’s texture press hard into his back. But… why is he on the ground? His leg twitches and jerks, like it wants to run. And he thrashes.

   
It’s all coming back to him now.

 He manages to produce two thoughts before everything blacks out; Why?

   
And:

  _God dammit, of course it’s on a Tuesday._

/

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

   
Ryoma groans. He’s been hearing that noise _much_ too often lately. His eyelids peel themselves apart, only to snap shut again at the overwhelmingly bright lights. It better not be Tuesday. His arms seem to have regained feeling, but his head hasn’t lost any of its throbbing. Such a shame. Sitting up, he brushes his fingers against the smooth white linens.

  
A hospital.

   
Or is it? The room is… strangely… _nice_. It’s clean, and cozy. But most importantly, it’s _calm_ and _isolated_. He’s alone. Thankfully.

 He sits up, ignoring the prickles of pain that travel up his spine. He’ll live. Pain isn’t the most important thing to him right now; what he’s really thinking over is _why the hell_ he threw himself onto the road in front of another person who was jaywalking.

And then it comes back to him in a mangled bundle of messy, non-chronological memories that slap him in the face. Not literally, of course. His fingers leave the sheets to clench at his head, frantically kneading his temples to the point where he feels the need to leave imprints in his skull forever. Lord, it’s painful.  
  
Too many numbers, too little time, and just enough bad luck.

 

And after his mental memory banking system manages to sort things out, he wishes that he never saw anything, or even knew anything. He wishes that the boy _never_ bumped into him, and that he _never_ turned around. He checks the date- Sunday. Five days since _it_ happened. He grimaces;

 Because no matter how much his arm hurts right now, he knows the boy is worse off. The boy in the harry potter shirt…

 …is probably nothing more than another box of ashes buried under six feet of dirt and stuck under a big stone slab. Marble if his family cares.

 Not that a corpse has discriminating tastes.

/

 When he comes to again, his room is a good deal more… golden? It’s certainly dimmer, that’s for sure. Someone has closed the curtains, and Ryoma isn’t sure if he should be thankful for that. And then, with a start, he realizes that this time he isn’t alone.

 “I see you’re finally awake.”

 “Who the fuck are you?”

 The man’s lips twitch. “Such interesting language you use. It’s rather… _rogue_ if I do say so myself.”

 “Rogue? Nah. But no seriously, who are you?” Ryoma growls.

 “Who am I? Such an interesting question. I’m many things; a business man, a husband, a _father_ , just to name a few. So many things, so little time.”

And Ryoma is struck by how close to home that last line hits. “Give me a straight answer, god dammit.”

“A straight answer? Why, my answer was straight… as a circle!” The man chuckles flippantly. “But please, sit back and relax. You’re still unwell.”

“I’m not unwell, you imbecile.”

The stranger’s eyes sharpen suddenly, and his voice has lost its previously amused tone. “Please, take that back if you so kindly would? It’s such an… unflattering word.” Ryoma gets the feeling that the first part is merely for the sake of proper etiquette.

   
But he acquiesces. Or at least fakes it well by nodding humbly. Hopefully his true intentions don’t show on his face.

 “I hope you realize your resent is present in the features of your face.”This man is the epitome of a jerk. Ryoma doesn’t respond. “Anyways. I was wondering. Have you perhaps a particular reason why you chose to jump onto the road?”

 Ryoma’s face darkens. “I didn’t _jump_ , I tripped.” 

“On air?”

 “…”

 “Straight into the path of a car?”

 “…”

 “Just in time to save a boy?”

 “Wait he’s alive?”

 “No, he was hit by a flying piece of debris from your unfortunate accident. Died of blood loss on his way to the hospital.”

 “…” Ryoma looks down, acting nonchalant.

 “Now. Do you continue to deny your ridiculously stupid stunt?”

 “Is there something you need?” Ryoma demands rather rudely. “I should get going.”  
 “Oh no, that certainly wouldn’t do, you’ve just woken up!”

 “It’s been four damn days, let me go.”

“Well, if you insist. I will let you out if you can answer one small little question for me.”

“It can’t be a why or how question,” Ryoma bargains.

“Of course, as you wish.”

“Fine, shoot,” He grumbles. This man with silver blonde hair is starting to get on his nerves. Not everyone can speak with what is probably called ‘poise’. Ryoma refuses to acknowledge it as ‘elegance’ or ‘class’.

 The man sits up a bit straighter- not that he was remotely slouched in the beginning. It only serves to exaggerate their height differences. He opens his mouth, and carefully enunciates every single word cleanly and clearly. “Did you see something before you ran?”  
 

Ryoma’s entire body freezes up. He feels his cold, clammy hands fly into a clasped position in his lap before he responds.

“…Yes. Yes, I did.” 

/ 

He manages to get out without revealing anything about the numbers- the countdown. To be fair, their deal _did_ only include him being asked _one_ question. Not two, not three, not a hundred, just one.  
 

And he hadn’t even lied in his answer. So why did he feel uneasy?

 _At least that creepy old man is gone_ , he decides as he continues down the sidewalk to his house. The wind blows chilly air into his face, making him almost regret forcing the chauffer he was assigned drop him off three blocks before his actual house. Key word being ‘almost’. The majority of him is just glad that the other man doesn’t know where he lives.

/

Or so he thinks.

   
Because according to his calculations, this man should definitely _not_ be standing on his doorstep surrounded by ten bodyguards dressed in black suits. “How the _hell_ did you find this place?”

    
It’s just a coincidence. Absolutely a coincidence. Definitely…

 

“I found your name in the address book, of course.”

…not a coincidence.

“I can file a restraining order, you know. This is harassment. You’re stalking me. I could sue you.” He tries to keep the panic out of his voice. What has he gotten himself into?

“Of course, you can. It’s one of your rights, after all.” The man isn’t even phased. Is he made of stone?

“Please. Leave me alone.” It sounds weak, even to Ryoma.

“You saw something the other day. I want to know what it is that made you willing to commit suicide.”

  
It’s not suicide if you know you won’t die. That’s what Ryoma wants to say. But it’s not true. Sometimes, he thinks he does it _because_ he doesn’t know- and at this point, he doesn’t care if he dies. It’s just a matter of time. Perhaps the space he wastes in the world can be better used by someone else with purpose. But like usual, he curbs his tongue back, and sticks with a simple, “Dunno.”

  
“What do you want?”

“Huh?” He tries once again to pretend as if his jaw isn’t on the ground at the moment.

“I said, what do you want?”

“You can’t _say_  that, it’s a question.”

 The man’s gaze hardens, and Ryoma decides to stop harassing him. _He_ doesn’t want a restraining order, after all. “I will ask you again. What do you want?”

“Are you kidding me? Shouldn't _I_ be asking that question? You’re the stalker and the harasser, what do you think? I just want you to leave me alone.”  
“If you could have anything in the world right now, what would you want?” The man clarifies. Even his body guards look lost at this question.

“It’s nothing you would be able to give.”

“Hm, interesting. Try me.”  
 

Ryoma looks away before turning back slowly. He’s still not sure what compels him to actually tell the truth, but the words are sliding out like jell-O from a plate before he can stop any of them. And just like jell-O, they splatter heavily against the ground. “I want to see my brother.”

The older man nods. “Amusing. And what makes you think this is impossible?”  
“He’ll never be able to get here,” Ryoma shrugs.

   
The man cocks his head. “And why can’t he just walk in? I'll cover the transportation costs if that's you're concern.”

   
Ryoma raises an eyebrow and laughs humorlessly, letting all his bitterness seep in to his voice. “Oh please sir, we both know that the dead can't walk.”

/ 

Ryoma doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Arguments don’t normally land anyone job interviews.  
  
His eyes dart over the sleek golden name plate stuck to one of the dark mahogany doors.

Atobe Keitaro. That’s his name. Current owner of a large business chain that is the favorite for taking over the world. All in due time, perhaps. Would he want to take part in that?

Ryoma’s mind wanders. It’s a butterfly, flitting from a sweet daisy of his brother to the cold, petal-less lily of yesterday. He can’t stop it. Why in the world did he agree to this? 

/

“What is your current occupation?”  
 

“Café worker.”

“Waiter?”  
“…No, but I make a mean coffee.”

The man doesn’t laugh; he merely scrutinizes him heavily. “Smoker?”

“No, my lungs are healthy as an elephant’s.” The sarcasm is just so ridiculous by now, it’s not even funny.

“Any idols?”

“On yeah, thousands. Millions. Gotta spread the love.” He takes pleasure in the way the man’s veins tick visibly on his temples.

“Any family in proximity?”

“Well, my dad’s closer than Jupiter, so if you consider-“

“No, any in Japan at the moment.”

“My mom?”

“Does she cook?”

“How the fuck is that even relevant?”

“Please, language.”

Ryoma just snorts; he doesn’t see the point of a half-hearted response.

   
“Alright, final question. Do you gamble?”

 “I wish I did. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck in the equivalent of a shack then.” He finds the repeated questioning sick. Some of these are probably just to piss him off. Why would the man care about his _mother_? He’s the one interviewing for a job, not her. And that brings him to the question- why the hell is he interviewing for a job?

   
He just really doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

“Mhm excellent. When are you available to start working?”

“You said last question.”

"This isn’t a part of the interview, sweet child.” The mocking tone rears its ugly head again.

“…I told you already, I don’t want this job. I don’t want any money you have to offer me. Hell, I don’t want anything to do with you. Why can no one just accept the fact that I want to be left alone?”

“Alone, to your own vices? I guarantee you that I will stop all of your harrassers.”

“Including yourself?”

“Hm?”

Ryoma sighs. Even regaining his privacy isn’t worth taking a job offered by this rich man who stinks of filthy money and corruption. “Look, I’m not-“

“Interested? Oh, don’t pretend now. I know who you are.”

“…You do?”

 “Of course. Echizen Ryoma, son of a tennis genius, known as a prodigy himself, born in the United States before moving to Japan, drinks Ponta, owns a cat he calls Karupin, is friends with-“

“Whoa stop stop stop.” Ryoma holds his hands up, palms away from himself. “You really are a stalker.”

  
“Please, I prefer the term… researcher. Anyways, I know so much about you. So much information.” Ryoma senses the threat creeping up his words. “And of course, if I were to, use… that information… well, I doubt you would live to see the consequences, now, would you?”

   
“I’m sorry, but next time you try blackmailing someone, don’t wear that tie. It’s horrid and unflattering.” Ryoma gestures rudely to the man’s bright green necktie. The color is really rather distracting. And not in a good way. "Why do you need  _me_ anyways? Go get someone else who actually has time for this shit." 

"You are still young, too young perhaps. I am Atobe Keitaro, billionaire, current head of the company, owner of the world. I have a single son. And yet, you see, that is the problem. Only one son. He is the one who will inherit the world, my world. And I need to protect him absolutely. Do you see now?"

"...I hope you realize I can't actually _do_ anyth-" 

"Please, you don't need to lie. I can already guess at your abilities."

"You're on drugs."  

"I see that my words have no effect on you. Will I need to use actions instead?”

“Uh… what?”  
“You’re cousin Nanako is living in… hm…” Keitaro flips over a leaf of paper on his clipboard. “Aha, here it is. Los Angeles. Such a lovely place! Shame it might be seeing a sudden increase in crime rates… And she just moved in with her fiancé as well, did she not? Perhaps I should ring up my assistant and find out what firm he works in. Oh, look at that, he's an entrepreneur too. Would be a real tragedy if he were to suddenly experience bankruptcy.”

Ryoma’s eyes immediately narrow and become hooded. “That’s low. You’re using my family now?”

“One of them is already dead, no?”

 Every word before was like a knife, but the last line is a bomb. Shooter, hooker, and sinker. He wants to stop the onslaught of images that flood into his mind- a confusing montage of moments all jumbled together- but it’s as if mere words have broken his mental dam.

   
A pale white hand reaching towards him, accompanied by a sickening gurgling noise. And then the whimpering, the groaning. The pleading. The “Run”. It’s all too much for him and he reels back, glaring. But the fragmented flashbacks don’t stop. They tug him deeper into the past, flashbacks darting around his mind like shadows flickering in and out in candlelight. Footsteps and gun shots are followed by screaming and sobbing.  
 

And then just a last forlorn memory of himself dressed in black, staring in a broken mirror.

   
He holds a basket of white flowers.

   
Ryoma wrenches himself out of the past and is about to spit at Keitaro’s feet when he realizes that the rich business owner is _laughing_. Ryoma shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he whispers half-numbly. “You’re absolutely insane.”

   
He laughs harder. “Maybe I am. But you should look at yourself. Normal people don’t live your kind of life.”

   
Ryoma hates how absolutely correct, spot on, accurate his analysis is. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

/

So maybe it’s generally a good idea to ask _what_ a job entails before signing on to it.  
 

And maybe Ryoma forgot to do just that.

Because if he had remembered, he certainly wouldn’t be here listening to the particularities of a certain rich boy heir. Is knowing how the other likes his coffee even important? And who wears purple every day?  
 

“There is one final thing you must know. It is absolutely imperative that you keep tabs on the young master’s location at all times. He is known to be rather tricky.”  
  
“Alright, alright,” Ryoma rolls his eyes and waves his hand flippantly. “Got it. Keep tabs.”

“Excellent. Now, here is a quick test. If you don’t pass, you’ll just have to keep trying.”

Wait. What?

/

Ok, Ryoma has officially wasted three hours of his life learning this much useless information.

“Shirts?”

“Must be sorted according to fabric, and then color, never put shirts from the first drawer with shirts from the fourth drawer. Remind me why I need to know this again?”

   
The butler (who’s name Ryoma now knows is Michael) ignores him completely. “Travel and transportation?”

   
“Private jet at all possible times, trains over commercial airline flights, buy out two seats in all directions, and make sure to bring bottled mineral water,” Ryoma lists boringly. “I still don’t understand the point of these exercise questions. I’m a bodyguard, not a maid.”

“Apologies, but the proper term would be… accompaniment. You accompany the young master wherever he goes.”  
“I know, I know. I hope you don’t expect me to follow him into the shower stalls,” he snarls.

The butler rolls his eyes and seems to ignore all of Ryoma’s complains. “Alright, final question.”

“Oh lord, finally,” Ryoma moans.

“Coffee?”

“Only Italian roast, absolutely no French roast, two shots of expresso on Mondays, half on normal days.”

“Is that your final answer?”

Ryoma sighs, reflects, and tips his head back with a groan. “And three shots on days with conference calls past eleven.”

“Excellent. You pass.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Ryoma claps sarcastically.

The butler bows and holds the door open for him, gesturing grandly. “I will personally direct you to your room, where all your instructions and… _utilities_ will be located. This way, if you would.”

 Exiting the room, Ryoma is struck by just how fancy his surroundings are. Of course, he somewhat noticed it when he first entered the mansion, but at that time he was more concerned over what exactly his job was going to be. His slightly dirty, scruffed up tennis shoes seem out of place as they sink into the velvety red carpet sprawled out over the cold marble floors. As he passes through foyers and foyers of draperies, it hits him that he’ll _probably_ end up getting lost within the first week of his career.

   
…And that the style drastically changes through the mansion’s multiple wings. By the time he reaches his room, his feet are tapping lightly on creaky, traditional wooden floors and his eyes are drawn to Japanese decorations adorning the walls.

 Michael slides open a screen door and gestures him inside. “Here is your room. All the necessary materials you will need are here, including all sanitary needs. If there is anything you lack or require, please ring one of the maids using this button on the wall here. Do you have any questions?”

Ryoma is confused. “Wait wait wait. Why is there a _bed_ in here? And a bathroom? This looks like a hotel room.”

Michael turns, looking equally as confused. “Why, I thought that was obvious.”

“ _…What_ is obvious?”

“You are to be living here for the time between now and the termination of your contract.”

 /

Alright, so once again, Ryoma should probably read contracts before he signs.

“But I like my current flat,” he protests in a last ditch attempt to get out of this terribly unappealing living situation.

“Hm? Name what you enjoy about it. The Atobe family can easily supply resources towards recreating that environment in the Atobe mansion.” Atobe Keitaro spins around in his chair and cocks an eyebrow.

Ryoma blinks and nods mutely. He’s now just kicking up a fuss to be difficult and deplete the rich ass family’s resources. Not that it will make that much of a difference, but still. It’s important to him.

“Alright, I will send two inspectors over to where you live early tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, due to the nature of our contract, you will be required to move in tonight. I hope this is not too inconvenient for you?” Ryoma finds the meaningless, empty formalities of this family ridiculous. He nods though. Might as well make as much trouble as possible. And shit, now he needs to clean his flat.“Excellent. Well, my son should be coming home from his Hong Kong business trip in a few hours. You two will be introduced over a dinner that has already been booked. If you wish to gain his approval, I advise you… to…” Here, he looks down at Ryoma with a rather disgusted look. “Clean up, so to speak. A variety of suits have been left in your closet, the measurements of which should be proper. If they do not fit, please let Michael know.”

Ryoma nods (again).

“I believe we have everything sorted out then. The restaurant you will be going to is the Spiaggia. I hope you enjoy Italian cuisine.”

   
Dammit, his wallet is going to take a real hit. Maybe he can just get a light soup or something?

   
As he exits the older man’s study, Michael opens the door and says, “Make sure you aren’t late. You’ll be expected in the lower parlor by six.”

/

   
“Such a situation is absolutely horrendous. Ore-sama finds this brat’s lack of punctuality atrocious. Where is he?”

“I apologize sir. Perhaps he is merely lost in the mansion. It is his first day, after all.” Michael bows low, wondering where the other boy even is.

“This is unacceptable. Please, send Mary down to find him this instant.”

“Of course, at once.”

Ryoma turns around a few times, watching himself in the mirror. There’s a reason he doesn’t wear suits. The limitation on his range of motion just irks him to no end.

A knock sounds at the door and a shy voice rings out. “Um…Echizen-san? It is unfitting for us to make Atobe-sama wait.”

A smirk graces his lips. He’s definitely just late because… well, he’s late. Not because he feels an incessant need to piss off someone he despises but hasn’t even met. Oh, of course. “Yeah, I know. I’m coming.” He hustles over and opens the door, closing it behind him. “So… where am I meeting this… kid?”

The maid’s eyes widen at his referral to the Atobe heir as ‘kid’. “U-um, he’s waiting for you in the parlor. 

As expected, his supposed ‘employer’ isn’t happy when he half waltzes half saunters into the parlor at 6:45, an entire three-quarters of an hour late. And the more upset the boy and the butler are, the happier Ryoma is. He grins cockily. “Hey.”

A very pregnant pause ensues.

Until… “How dare you make ore-sama sit here for a total of forty-five minutes? Thank goodness ore-sama had the foresight to make a reservation for seven instead of six thirty.”  
 

Ryoma does a double take and forcibly tries to restrain himself from snorting out loud. Ore-sama? This guy is rich. “Well,” he says, steadying his voice as much as he can. “I must have lost track of time. Such a shame.”  
  
The other boy’s eyes narrow. He gestures for Michael. “We will become acquaintances over dinner. Prepare the limo immediately and bring the chauffeur.”

“Fancy, fancy,” Ryoma mocks. “Looks like little Atobe doesn’t even know how to drive! Shocking for someone so old,” he taunts.

“How dare you!” Atobe looks just ever so slightly insulted. “Ore-sama’s driving abilities are absolute perfection in themselves.”

“You mean, by being non-existent?”

Atobe narrows his eyes. “Apologies, but do you make an effort to be an absolute _brat_ to everyone you meet?”

“Hm?”

“Ore-sama does not approve.”

“Why don’t you fire me then?” Ryoma suggests, albeit a bit too eagerly. “I mean, isn’t your happiness just ever so important?” 

“That blunt tongue of yours speaks in such a tone of mockery, ore-sama is disgusted.” Atobe turns his nose up, looking disgruntled. 

“I see, you clearly can’t stand me.”

“Must you state the obvious?” Atobe challenges. 

“The obvious? Of course I must, for one would be afraid you might not understand otherwise,” Ryoma sneers. 

“This way, if you will,” Michael hastens, the ongoing aggressive banter making him slightly nervous. “The chauffer is waiting for you out-“

“No need, dismiss him immediately. Ore-sama will drive,” Atobe declares, giving Ryoma a pointed glare.

The ride to the restaurant is just as awful and intolerable as the minutes that precede it. Ryoma tries (unsuccessfully) to inflict severe pain upon Atobe’s foot with his own, but scowls after being called childish. It’s rather irritating that Atobe can avoid his attacks even while driving a car, but Ryoma finds comfort in the fact that the suit is really limiting his range of motion.

Atobe proceeds to snottily point out that his expression is so scary, he probably doesn’t come off as attractive to any girls. That comes as a rather stinging blow. 

But, again, Ryoma is satisfied with his retaliation- a new nickname.

   
“Humph, ore-sama finds you absolutely insufferable, brat.” 

“Oho, the monkey king is unsatisfied!” Ryoma gasps mockingly. “What ever shall we do?”

“E-excuse me?” Atobe splutters, looking furious. “Ore-sama demands that you retract that unfitting, inaccurate, misleading nickname immediately!” 

“Che,” Ryoma scoffs. “I think it’s rather reflective of your personality.” 

Atobe glares. 

“Ooo, no response now? Are you sulking, dear?” 

Atobe smirks. “Apologies, please do not refer to ore-sama with such names. Ore-sama will never be able to return the affections of an imbecile such as yourself, as he just does not ‘swing that way’, you see.” 

Ryoma laughs. “As if anyone would want to come within a mile of you. Your primate instincts are probably rather off-putting.” 

Atobe scowls. “You, brat, are one to talk. If we were ever romantically involved, I would stab you.”

They arrive at the restaurant, and as he’s stepping out of the car, Ryoma turns back with a sly, mocking cheerful smile: “Yes, well, if we ever dated, I would gladly let you.” He makes a slicing gesture over his heart for good measure. Hopefully that gets his point across. 

Atobe steps out and shuts the door behind him with a roll of his eyes. “Oh please, as if you would have the honor of staining ore-sama’s beautiful hands with your filthy blood.” 

“At least my blood would be _human_ blood.” 

Atobe glares. 

“And yes, that was a dig at you being a monkey,” Ryoma sings cheerfully as they enter the restaurant. 

Sundays happen to be very excellent days for him.

  


	2. Act II: Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryoma makes a terrifying discovery he may once have thought would be a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas guys (and girls)! It's 1 AM where I am right now so I should really be sleeping, but of course fanfiction comes first. My sleep schedule is too screwed up anyways; there's no hope left for me. Enjoy chapter 2~

Act II: Discovery

 

He hates Italian.

No, not people from Italy, that would be Italians with an ‘s’. He hates their food; and not because it tastes bad, just because of two things; One, it’s expensive, and two, Atobe likes it. Ryoma’s eyes are glossing over the menu, checking the price of everything and anything. He hasn’t even ordered yet, and it already feels like his wallet is getting lighter and lighter. “I’ll just have a soup,” he grumbles finally, setting the menu down.

 Atobe raises an eyebrow. “Ahn? A mere soup? Those are for appetizers, although ore-sama doubts a commoner like yourself would understand such a concept.”

 Ryoma scowls. “I just got out of a car accident, lay off.”

 “The accident was four days ago,” Atobe sniggers.

 Ryoma glares, but then stops. “Wait, how did you know the accident was four days ago? Is everyone in your family a stalker?”

 Atobe turns up his nose and sniffs with disdain at his statement. “A _stalker_? Please, refrain from referring to ore-sama with such plebian terms. No, ore-sama merely enjoys getting to know who he hires. And if he had figured out your _rotten_ personality, he certainly would have pushed harder for father to hire somebody else.”

 At this, Ryoma hesitates inwardly. He doesn’t know how much Atobe knows. From what he hears, Atobe doesn’t know about the… ability yet. Playing dumb is probably the best option here. He scoffs. “I don’t know why your father had to hire me either. Probably his weird- I mean, _dignified_ tastes, hm?” Atobe is about to say something back when the waitress stops at their table. “What can I get for you young men here today?” She smiles at Atobe cheerily.

 “Ore-sama will have the Fettuccine al Burro. Please bring a bottle of sparkling water, and make sure the cup contains a slice of lime. For dessert he will have the rose panna cotta.”

“Excellent, and for you, sir?” She turns to Ryoma expectantly. He re-opens the menu.

“I’ll just have your… Pasta e Fagioli…The one... uh... a la Chez Ivano,” he finishes awkwardly. The waitress waits awkwardly to see if there’s more. “Oh yeah, and a normal water. No gas,” he stresses.

 “…Sir, the Pasta e Fagioli is a soup, not a pasta,” the waitress hesitantly explains.

“I know, that’s why I ordered it,” he snaps.

The waitress jumps. “I-is that all, then? No dessert?”

“I lack a sweet tooth,” Ryoma grumbles, snapping the menu shut and holding it out expectantly. “That’s all.”

 The waitress hastily takes Atobe’s menus, insisting on leaving the drink menu behind, before she makes a much overdue departure.

“Ore-sama sees that you, brat, are rude to everyone you meet.” Ryoma shrugs and idly twiddles his fingers, not particularly in the mood to make any more digs at the other boy. The week has definitely been long. Then he realizes that he has never showed up to Seigaku Café for quite awhile. He wonders if he’ll still receive a pay check. Not that he needs it, considering the Atobes are basically just taking care of his living expenses, but still. “Alright, ore-sama believes it is time for introductions.” Atobe sits up a bit straighter in his seat, and then gestures for Ryoma to do the same. Smiling sweetly, Ryoma slouches even further, drawing a long sigh from the boy facing him. “Must you behave so rudimentarily?”

Ryoma sits up a bit, solely for the sake of not arguing. He’s tired.

Atobe reaches out a pale, thin hand expectantly. “I am Atobe Keigo, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Ryoma stares at the hand in confusion. What is he supposed to do with it? But then he realizes this is probably some high class introductory ritual, so he reaches out his hand parallel (un-touching) to Atobe’s and says, “I am Echizen Ryoma, it’s a horror to meet you.”

Atobe stares at him for a moment, looking somewhat shocked. Ryoma just stares back, wondering if something is supposed to happen.

Finally… “Dear lord, have you really not conducted a handshake before?”

Ryoma stares. And with a start, he realizes that Atobe is half-right; he hasn’t met anyone for so long that he’s _literally forgotten the mechanics of shaking hands_. Slowly and hesitantly, he reaches out and grips Atobe’s hand firmly before pumping it up and down awkwardly a few times. “I have.”

Atobe genuinely looks shocked.

/

/

Ryoma takes back everything he said about disliking Italian cuisine. The taste is delicious. Not that he’ll ever admit it. He finishes his soup slowly, still thinking about whether he’s going to qualify for his pay check this month. How many days has he missed work? Absentmindedly, he starts counting on the fingers of his right hand while his left reaches for the glass.

“You’re left-handed?” A voice startles him. He turns around and nods. “How odd. Ore-sama believes we should get to know each other better, considering ore-sama will be spending a good deal of his life around you.”

Ryoma stares. Is Atobe actually being _nice_? “Fine. Yeah. Sure,” he declares, not wanting to back down. “It’s on.”

Atobe wrinkles his nose. “It’s not a _challenge_ , brat.” But he leans back a bit and smiles languidly, somewhat contemptuously. “Alright, fire away then. Anything you wish to know about the ever magnificent ore-sama?”

Ryoma blinks, and tilts his head, thinking. On one hand, he could just ask a generic question, but that would be like _losing_ , and he just doesn’t _lose_. Especially not to someone who calls themselves ‘ore-sama’. “Did you really just call yourself magnificent? And no, that wasn’t my question, don’t answer it, thank you. Ok so… What do you think the biggest problem would be if pigs were to fly?” He asks.

Atobe stares a bit before attempting to cover up his shock with a quick and elegant cough. “Well, ore-sama believes that allowing pigs to fly would have three major issues- sanitation, traffic, and health. To begin-“ Ryoma holds his hands up. “I don’t actually want to know, I just wanted to see your reaction, Monkey King.” Atobe scowls. Then, he smirks. “Ore-sama’s turn. What is your plebian interpretation of death?”

Ryoma freezes. He’s been caught off guard too much lately for his liking. And no matter how hard he tries to push them away, images slide into his mind without invitation. Pale fingers gripping his wrist, growing cold against his skin. Eyes. Red. Everything is red.

And then he’s back. Looking around, he finds himself relaxing at the slight buzz of the restaurant, the warm aroma of pizza and sauces wafting through the air. He breathes in slowly. “Death… is a terrible yet inevitable thing.”

Atobe stares and tries to ignore the way Ryoma’s fingers are clenching tightly at the white table cloth.

/

/

The bill comes, and Ryoma prepares to take his wallet out, but Atobe grabs it, signs, and the waitress leaves. He stares. “Wait, but-“

Atobe rolls his eyes. “The entire bill has already been put on my father’s account, of course.”

Ryoma feels his stomach scream in indignation. “Fucking hell, if I knew I would have eaten more!” He groans, tossing his head back. Atobe chuckles evilly.

The rest of the meal finishes in peace. When they’re exiting the restaurant, Ryoma swears he can see something above him in his reflection on the dim glass of the door, but Atobe brushes past him, and it’s gone. He ignores it.

Atobe drives home- well, to his home. And when Ryoma enters his room to find Michael with a list of debriefings, he wants to collapse on the bed and faint. He brushes his teeth slowly, contemplating once again his pay check. Will Tezuka be nice enough to pay him anyways? He splashes his face with warm water before drying it with a fluffy beige towel that now hangs on a silver hook to the side.  
  
He looks at himself in the mirror.

“Well, at least you’re finally doing something,” he says out loud to his reflection, his gaze tracing over every single imperfect detail. “What am I doing,” he sighs. Maybe he’s really going mad. Just as he is about to turn off the lights, Ryoma swears he sees something move in the mirror, but just as he tries to focus on it, it’s gone. He shrugs.

The first part of his sleep is dreamless, like he’s stuck in an endless lull. But in the middle of the night, he wakes up and feels weird. Floaty. Like he can fly away. It’s probably the drowsiness, he decides, before collapsing back on the feather pillows and being overtaken by sleep once again.

His dreams are terrible for the rest of the night. He dreams of Ryoga- his brother, young and carefree, tosses him an orange and laughs when he drops it. Yes, he remembers that happening a few years ago.

_“Oho, look, the little boy brought his brother!”_ Why is that voice so damn familiar? It arrives accompanied by despair. So much despair.

And then he's watching his parents laugh at him while he cries. When was that? No, wait, it’s just a dream.

“ _Should we teach them both a lesson? I brought the gun.”_ The voice again… And then it hits him. He heard the voice six months ago. Six months ago, what happened six months ago… Ryoga. Ryoga happened. Wait. He clings tightly to the one happy memory of his brother smiling. Is it even real? Ryoga Ryoga Ryoga. And Ryoma suddenly can’t tell if Ryoga is dead, alive, or somewhere in between- has everything until now been a mere dream?

The lines between memories and hypotheticals blur together, twisting and blurring his mental world until all he can focus on is the look in Ryoga’s eyes. He slips deeper into sleep with the image of emptiness searing against his eyelids.

 

When he wakes, Ryoma finds his legs tangled hopelessly in the soft down covers and his fingers clenched in his pillow case. It hasn’t been that bad for weeks.

He tosses on some clean clothes laid out by Michael (that butler is honestly a control freak, Ryoma can testify) and cleans himself up before walking out to breakfast. He finds Atobe sitting in the parlor, looking lofty and upset. “Do you know what time it is, brat?”

“Huh?” Looking down, Ryoma checks his wrist only to remember that he lost his watch six months ago when… no. He shakes his head, clearing the moments from his mind. No flashbacks. “No, I lost my watch.”

Atobe scoffs. “9 A.M. You slept until _nine_. That is unacceptable. Be grateful today is a holiday and ore-sama does not have to go to university.”

Ryoma just blinks. “Today is a holiday?” He echoes dumbly.

Atobe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s almost Christmas. Or have you already forgotten? I hope the car accident didn’t damage your mind that much.”

Ryoma is too surprised to even scowl at the insult, much less snark back. It’s almost _Christmas_. That means it’s almost is birthday. He looks up. “So… what are we doing today?”

Atobe stands up smugly and raises his arm. “Ore-sama has decided that he will go shopping. Of course, you will follow behind and carry the bags.”

Ok, this makes Ryoma scowl. “Why am I carrying the bags?”

Atobe scoffs. “It’s not as if you have money to buy anything.” Ryoma narrows his eyes, now royally pissed off. Except then he deflates, because Atobe Keigo is a jerk, an ass, and a pompous little shit… but he is also undeniably _right_. Echizen Ryoma is poor.

“Where are we going?” Ryoma doesn’t ask about having breakfast- he’s pretty sure Atobe is purposely taking away his meal privileges as punishment for being late.

“The mall, of course. This is ore-sama’s first time visiting such a plebian place, but father thinks it will help you adjust.”

Ryoma rolls his eyes; after last night, he’s learned to just roll with it. They climb into the car (which Atobe declares he will drive to show off his ‘magnificent’ steering abilities) and Ryoma finds his gaze drawn to his own reflection in one of the wing view mirrors. He’s almost certain he sees something flickering, but then Atobe starts the car and everything blurs out. Must have just been the light.

 

/

/

 

Ryoma doesn’t really like malls. They’re noisy, confusing, and full of people. For the first hour, he dutifully follows Atobe through the streets, trying not to make rude comments. The operative phrase there would, however, be the word ‘trying’.

“Ore-sama would like a smaller size for this shirt.”

“Are you sure? Monkeys are notorious for growing in size as they age.” Ryoma grins and the pointed glare he receives.

Then, they visit a classical vintage store that sells a variety of odd things from books to music discs. Atobe selects three after meticulously listening to each and every note.

Ryoma looks up from the book collection he was examining. “You have Van Gough’s ear for music,” he declares. His grin grows even wider at he scoffing sound Atobe makes.

And finally, Atobe enters a shoe shop, demanding to see their most expensive selections. “Do these make ore-sama look dashing, brat?” Ryoma looks up from his lap and cocks an eyebrow. “Shocking you’re actually asking for my opinion. They look fine.” Atobe stares at himself in the mirror for a bit longer before deciding that he doesn’t want the shoes. “They make ore-sama’s feet look less flattering than they are, especially with their atrocious colors,” he decides, gesturing grandly at the shoes.

Ryoma shrugs as he gets up. “There’s nothing wrong with you that reincarnation can’t fix.” He ducks to avoid getting socked around the head for his last comment.

As they continue on their journey through the mall, Ryoma is made even more aware of the fact that his stomach is quite literally _empty_. As in, he’s starving. It’s weird. He’s never felt hungry since the day Ryoga died. Although, admittedly, he did only have soup last night, and he didn’t eat breakfast.

It feels like hours, but finally Ryoma’s stomach growls so loudly that everyone in the vicinity turns to stare.

_Do not blush do not blush do not blush_ \- it’s a mantra floating through his head.

“Are you hungry?” Atobe raises an eyebrow disparagingly. “It’s only eleven thirty. Why don’t we eat in an hour?”

Shoving away the protests of his stomach, Ryoma shrugs and nods. “Sure.” They visit a few more stores, although Atobe doesn’t purchase anything from any of them. “Can you not drag me into stores if you’re not going to buy anything?” Ryoma complains.

Atobe sniffs. “Ore-sama _might_ buy something. He just needs to see if there is anything worth purchasing.”

“…Which is why you have to try on three lime shirts despite the fact that even _I_ know you don’t wear green?” Atobe doesn’t respond directly, merely sighs and mumbles a half-hearted tidbit about how Ryoma doesn’t understand Atobe fashion. And in his mind, Ryoma screams, “What fashion?” As they walk, the monster inside of his stomach grows bigger, gnawing away at his insides.

The more he ponders over his hunger, the more dazed and woozy he feels. Suddenly, he’s light headed and the entire world is shaking around him. Ahead, he can make out Atobe’s tall figure, walking rather briskly. Ryoma hurries to catch up, until the entire world flips like its just a carpet someone pulls out form under his feet, and he finds himself sprawled on the ground.

“Oi, brat, what in the lord’s name was that?” Atobe demands, turning around and looking surprised.

Ryoma picks himself up. “I just tripped,” he snapped. “It’s not like you don’t trip.” Slowly he stands up and waits a bit before walking again.

“Are you ok?” Atobe demands, giving him a skeptical look. “You look drunk.”

Ryoma opens his mouth to respond, but ends up closing it again for the fear that he might hurl (puke) straight onto Atobe’s expensive blazer. If he isn’t so afraid of losing his job (he now realizes he probably won’t get his pay check from the café), he might even laugh. He just nods, and continues.

He tips off center, sideways.

The world is entirely black around him before he knows it.

  
/

/

  
He wakes up in his bed at the Atobe mansion.

This is ridiculous. At least he’s not hungry anymore. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he reaches over and grabs his phone, dialing the first number he has in mind- Tezuka. It rings twice before it’s picked up.

“Hello?”

“Buchou?”

Tezuka sighs, and it comes across mixed with a bit of static. “Ryoma, you don’t have to keep calling me that. I’m not your captain anymore.”

“You used to be my boss.” 

There’s a silence at the other end before, slowly, he hears Tezuka say, “So I suppose you’re quitting Seigaku café then?”

“Not by my choice, rest assured,” Ryoma grumbles.

“Did your mother finally hunt you down and force you to attend university?”

“No. Who would want to attend Uni?”

“Echizen, you should be in your second year of university already. I don’t know why you didn’t go to one even after you were accepted-“

“They accepted me for a fucking tennis scholarship. That’s an athletic recruit. When is everyone going to understand that I don’t want to play tennis anymore?” Ryoma growled.

 Tezuka is silent. Ryoma hangs up.

  
Three seconds after he does, Atobe slides open the door and walks in. “You seem to be fine now.”

 “…Yeah. So how’d you get me here?”

 Atobe scoffs. “Ore-sama _carried_ you, of course. It would have been social destruction for anyone else, but naturally ore-sama managed to make it look fashionable.This is entirely your fault, you know. If you were hungry, you should have said something, brat.”

Ryoma glares and sits up a bit straighter. “Excuse me? My fault? _You_ should have realized that your _companion_ didn’t have anything but _soup_ for dinner, and didn’t eat a single bite of breakfast,” he snaps.

“Your pride gets in the way so often, ore-sama is surprised that it still manages to remain intact.”

“Yeah? You’re a self-centered king that needs to get a grip on his fucking surroundings because you don’t pay attention to anyone other than yourself.”

“Was the exchange between second and third person truly necessary?”

“Oh damn, that’s low. Targeting grammar because you have no better arguments, huh?”

Just as Atobe is about to sneer back a respond, the door opens, and Michael enters. “Atobe-sama, it’s time for dinner. Echizen-san, I’m sure you are feeling well enough by now to join?” Ryoma nods sulkily. “Excellent. Food will be served in fifteen minutes, please be down in ten.” The door closes with a gentle click as the butler exits.

“So I see that everyone in your family is very punctual,” Ryoma comments scornfully.

“Michael is not ore-sama’s _family_ , he’s merely a butler.”

“One hell of a butler at that,” Ryoma remarks with a smirk (A/N: Thumbs up and kudos to you if you know what this allusion refers to).

“And furthermore, ore-sama can clearly see that everyone in _your_ bratty family has just the same punctuality, or lack thereof, as you.”

Ryoma grins, a ghost of a bittersweet smile gracing his lips. “Yeah, my _late_ brother would agree.”

The conversation ends in Atobe delicately leaving the room in an awkward silence after Ryoma’s morbid sense of humor. Apparently death jokes aren’t appreciated by everyone.

 

/

/

 

Ryoma slides into his bed after the dinner thoroughly thirsty and worn out by the two Atobes. Where the hell is the lady of the house anyways? Moms are generally the kind ones. As his head sinks back into his pillow, he recalls the horrid dreams- nightmares- from the previous night.

_Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream._ He falls asleep with the mantra in his head.

" _Oi, Chibisuke. Come on, catch. Here, grab it. I can do it one-handed!”_

_“Hey Chibisuke, want to head over to the park? My friends are meeting up there too!”_

_“Ne Chibisuke, let’s go to the cinema; a new movie just came out the other day! It’s PG-13, but mum and dad won’t ever know!”_

_Chibisuke, Chibisuke, Chibisuke._

The voice echoes half terribly, half soothingly, ringing and bouncing off of metaphorical walls in his barred head; it’s a prison of sound and emptiness. And suddenly, the ground beneath his numbing feet swirls and he’s sinking deeper into the water of a new dream.

 He’s surrounded by white flowers. They float through the air around him, like pale silk petals drifting through water. Without realizing it, his fingers stretch out towards them, until suddenly the water-like air shifts. Something sticky is wrapping around his thumb, reaching out towards his pinky- his hand is stuck…

 

In a spider’s web.

 

He wakes up again with a gasp. It’s not even funny anymore how absolutely drenched his shirt is in cold sweat. At least this time his hands aren’t stuck in their own makeshift knot tied from the sheets. He untangles his limbs with minimal effort, and sits up.

_Chibisuke_.

Ryoga’s voice sounds in his mind like a mocking echo of his despair. Shaking out his hair, Ryoma grabs a set of clothes before trudging into the cold tile bathroom and wiping his face down. Hesitantly, he steps into the shower. As the hot water streams down his back and over his hands, all he can remember is the _voice_. Chibisuke. He doesn’t dare shut his eyes, because then it won’t just me auditory rememberance- it’ll turn graphic, and visual, and tactile. It’ll turn into everything he despises. Looking down, he realizes that his hands are already raw and red from the water’s pure heat.

   
Damn.

   
Wrapping a towel around his waste, he steps carefully out of the shower, wiping his feet on the fluffy rug. He might even like it, if it can just change its color from a sickly lavender to… well, anything else, really. Changing hastily into his clothes laid out the night before, The mirror is foggy, and he has the sudden urge to see his reflection. Not that he hasn’t memorized most of his features in the two decades or so of his existence. His eyes are probably dark and baggy from lack of quality sleep, his cheekbones prominent and gaunt from stress; reaching out with the towel, he wipes the mirror. He barely gives himself a glance, just to take in his presentability, before turning to grab a comb. It’s just as expected; heavy eyes, haggard face, frowning lips, bright hair-

Wait. Bright hair?

Whipping back, Ryoma stares. He reaches out with his hand and wipes a bit more of the mirror off. The water vapor in the air makes his vision a bit foggy. The water droplets dripping down the mirror’s reflective surface distort and interrupt the image a bit.

 

But it’s clear enough for him to see.

 

For him to see the dancing numbers counting down above his own head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could go through and explain all the stylistic choices I made but I guess that would be boring so yeah. That's a wrap on chapter two :)
> 
> Does anyone ever find it weird when people type smiley faces like (: instead of :)? When I see this (: I always first think it's a sad face until I look closer and realize it's not. Anyways, I'm just rambling now because I'm tired and I need to rest my poor mind. Stay tuned for chapter three, coming up soon =^-^=

**Author's Note:**

> Tragedy: (noun) a work dealing with tragic events and having an unhappy ending 
> 
> Just saying, guys; bear no expectations =^.^=


End file.
